Failing Forward... The Roots of Success by Paige

Failing Forward... The Roots of Success by Paige - August 2014 Scholarship Essay

“I can’t do this,” she said, frustrated and frazzled. I watched as my best friend threw her book across the floor, sulked into the kitchen, and grabbed that ever so handy container of Eddie’s Ice Cream. “It’ll be okay,” I told her, hoping she would at least share the chocolate chip delight. “Look,” I said, “all our lives we’ve forced ourselves to do the best we can, without room for error. But it is exhausting. It’s hard work going to school full time, working two part time jobs all the while trying to have a social life… and you know what, that’s okay.” She looked at me confused and laughed. “How is it okay if I have to take this class a second time?”

And that’s when it hit me. “Failure doesn’t mean you’ve lost. Failure means you’re learning to try something new; you’re learning to be resilient; and that you’d rather take a course six times than throw in the towel completely. You’re gaining perspective and that Jos, is what really matters.”

All our lives we’ve been told to reach perfection; that failure is for the weak-minded and downtrodden. Society is wrong. It wasn’t until my sophomore year in college that I really understood this concept. While no one likes to admit they didn’t succeed, failure has a subtle way of showing us our shortcomings; of showing us that there are other ways to solve a problem. I flashed back to my own experience with societal pressures to succeed.

It was Dr. D’s Constitutional Law Class and I was terrified. DiSarro only offers one A for his entire class and the pressure was on. If I wanted to maintain my Dean’s List career I needed to get that A. The week leading up to our first test felt like I’d fallen into Alice’s Tree Trunk in Wonderland. I was stressed, exhausted and hungry…and it was only day two. I figured, “I’ve paid attention in class, and read most of the chapters. I’ll be fine.” And boy was I wrong.

Test day came and luckily for me, I wasn’t the only one unsure of my results upon exiting the room. I walked out of Room 202 with 19 other dejected students. Sounds of “I should have stayed up longer,” “I shouldn’t have slept,” and “I don’t care” flooded the halls and there I was. Two days later I dragged myself up the cracked marble stairs of Old Main and listened to the tolling from the chapel bells. We filed into the classroom and in walked the little Italian man who would control the next four months of my life, and quite possibly, my academic future. He approached the chalkboard and wrote the class averages from an F to an A. I got the fourth highest grade in the class, a B. I watched as he handed pencils out to the two A students, thinking how much I wanted to have one of those pencils.

After I left the classroom that day I knew I couldn’t receive that A on my own and decided to humble myself and ask for help. I approached my friend, Jath, who had received the A last semester and asked if he could give me a few pointers. I learned that it was okay to not always be at the top of the class, or score the highest grade; what mattered is that I tried my hardest and had no regrets.

When I looked back at Jos, I saw myself, sitting in room 202 desperately working towards that silly pencil from that little Italian man. “Let me take a look at the chapter and see what I can do,” I told her. A huge smile broke out across her face, “really!” I hugged her and picked the way-too-expensive book up off the floor and said, “Don’t beat yourself up over failing, be proud of yourself for making an honest attempt.” And there we were, side by side reading up on all things Art History related.